


Scare Tactics

by rather_you_than_we



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-05-30 01:25:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6402814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rather_you_than_we/pseuds/rather_you_than_we
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Institute finally crushed, Elder Maxson is hopeful of a new influx of Brotherhood soldiers, willing to build the vision of a new dawn alongside him. Unfortunately, rather than welcoming skilled, committed new brothers and sisters, the Brotherhood of Steel finds itself overwhelmed by apathetic, trigger-happy recruits who care almost as little for its teachings as they do for the fate of the world itself. After a cruel prank orchestrated by new recruits pushes him over the edge, Maxson vows to personally vet every single potential new member before allowing them to enter his ranks, and begins a seemingly thankless task that takes him all over the Commonwealth. Well, as good old doc Cade says, it gets him out and about a bit. And if he finds time to do a little soul-searching, or even fall in love? That's just a bonus, isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fascist Scum

# Scare Tactics

#  A Fallout 4 Fanfic

Chapter 1 - Fascist Scum 

 

Just a few months back, he’d have kicked himself for thinking it, but Maxson barely saw the point in even bestowing ranks now. So many wastelanders drifting into his army every day - the few that stayed and prospered, the many that gave up and fled – why bother with titles and status when nobody cared for their value anyway?

It was a consequence of their victory he had been ignorant not to consider. One would think that any commander worth his salt would relish a seemingly undying stream of eager new recruits, willing to spout his rhetoric and die for his goals. Lasting victory required constant sacrifice, and he had crowds scrambling to join the Brotherhood.

But he didn’t relish it at all.

He’d been handed the recruits he needed, not the ones he wanted. Crass, drunken wastelanders who wanted the fighting robots but not the weight training, the miniguns but not the recon missions, the power armour but not the drills. And yes, they’d clear the commonwealth of mutants if he asked, shatter synths into piles of shrapnel – the ones who stuck around – but they did it with no reason to. They didn’t buy into his ideologies, and that was disappointing, if not unbearable.

Worse still though, was that the majority didn’t believe in anything.  

They weren’t defending families, or securing the world for future generations. They wanted guns to destroy and bombs to obliterate, for the sake of annihilation. The Brotherhood of Steel was nothing more to them than an arms dealer, a means to a childish fantasy of explosions, as if they wanted to destroy the perilous foundations of this new Commonwealth.

It was no exaggeration to say that this carelessness sickened Maxson to his stomach. He’d stand before the new intake each week and mentally scout out the few he’d keep, trust Kells to set tough enough initiations to wheedle out the rest, and then retire to his quarters. He didn’t want to meet the eyes of people who cared so little for humanity they’d willingly shoot themselves in the head if he offered them a flashy enough gun.

He took the typical soldier route and channelled this distaste into aggressive weight training and midnight surveys of the Commonwealth from the command deck. He’d thump punch bags until his knuckles bled, and leave them to bleed. He was tired but hardly slept, rarely ate more than a can of Cram or a spoonful of Sugar Bombs.

And if Cade batted the word ‘depressed’ around once more, to anyone stupid enough to listen, Maxson was certain he’d end up smashing the dear old doc’s head into a wall.

He wasn’t depressed. He was disappointed. He felt it pulsing through him every second; biting, hard, bitter disappointment that after years, after fighting and killing and dying and coming back stronger, his Brotherhood meant nothing more to the people of the Commonwealth than it ever had. His father’s legacy was crumbling into dust.

For most of his later adolescence, if one could even consider it an adolescence at all, Maxson had believed that crushing the bogeyman that was the Institute would leave him the foundation to a new world. Taking back control of technology from reckless hands would suppress it to a threat he’d barely have to impose. And finally, those wastelanders might realise what the Brotherhood had done for them.

The truth, however, was that they simply didn’t care. And maybe that was to be expected, maybe he’d been foolish to think that people who’d lost everything would be quick to trust a new leader, but he’d _saved their lives._ If this was gratitude he didn’t want it.

And yes, he had a Prydwen full of worthy brothers and sisters, he wouldn’t overlook that. Men and women who’d fought for him, for the Brotherhood. Ad victoriam.

But he needed fresh blood, an assurance that in two, three, four decades or more, the Brotherhood of Steel would continue to occupy its seat at the head of the Commonwealth. And he couldn’t believe in that yet, not while every passing day saw his ranks diluted with trigger-happy basket cases.

He took a brief glance at his terminal screen. _October 16 th_. _06:48_. Another day breaking, and the grip loosening a little more. He needed to regain control, but right now, more than that, he needed a shower.

The heavy padded coat was cast onto his bed as he grabbed a towel and took refuge in his private bathroom. He could allow himself some indulgences, and surely private use of a bathroom was merely permissible recompense for the constant bearing of a responsibility so all-consuming it felt as if it could snap his neck.

Hot water was a luxury the Prydwen could not justify, but Maxson barely noticed the temperature anymore. It was enough to have water at all, to wipe the grime from his beard and sluice away the sweat on his scarred skin.

Yet the trickling flow of lukewarm water had barely breached the soap suds in his hair when a frantic, heavy pounding shattered his momentary peace.

‘Elder Maxson! Sir!’

Another man might have shut his eyes and willed the disruption away, feigned ignorance and continued his blissful isolation, but that was cowardice. And Arthur Maxson would accept a thousand barbed comments, countless thinly-veiled insults, but no one would accuse him of being a coward.

The voice was young, nervous but holding firm. An initiate, he guessed.

‘Speak,’ he called back shortly, shutting off the water and roughly dragging the towel across his skin.

‘Yes, Sir’ the voice affirmed, as Maxson slipped the towel over the longer mid-section of his hair, ‘Knight Captain Cade requests your presence in the sickbay as soon as possible.’

‘What is the problem, brother?’

He was pulling on his jumpsuit now, reaching for his boots, but he would wait a moment before opening the door. It was easier to get a quick run-down of the situation, however limited, before charging head-first into it.

‘I’m afraid Knight Captain Cade will only discuss it with you in person, Elder. He requested specifically that I not discuss this within earshot of other crew members.’

So it was like that.

Maxson’s mind began to scan over what could possibly be important enough to conceal in such a way. The Brotherhood didn’t keep secrets: that was their approach. Which left only a few possibilities: a fatality, which would be registered and dealt with before a formal announcement to the crew, a case of “sleeping with the enemy”, which though rare, did occasionally happen; leaving him with at best a tainted crew member and at worse, a mutant pregnancy, and finally, something too embarrassing to spread around.

 _Please_ , he mused, _not another outbreak of pubic lice_.

He swept his coat on and wrenched open the door, the initiate almost tumbling onto him as he did so. The young man righted himself quickly, flushed slightly, and apologised for the inconvenience. Maxson barely acknowledged it, gesturing instead for the boy to lead him to the sickbay and cutting into a sprint as he did.

As soon as he reached the sickbay, it became obvious to Maxson that this was neither a fatality, nor the result of a traitorous fumble, but he couldn’t quite slot it squarely into the embarrassment category either.

Yes, Quinlan was embarrassed, obviously so, all pink cheeks and downcast eyes and hands shaking as he gripped a cracked china cup of what smelled like bourbon. But it wasn’t the schoolboy embarrassment of a comical accident, or a mission gone wrong. It was the burning discomfort of shame.

The small room was cramped even without the initiate, who had seemingly disappeared immediately after delivering the Elder to his fate; Quinlan sat hunched over on the surgical bed whilst Cade braced himself against his desk, Kells occupied the office chair, Emmett the cat prowled grumpily around the floor and Ingram and Teagan leaned back against opposite walls, bottles in hand.

 _Late to the party_ , Maxson thought bitterly.

‘Would somebody care to inform me what is happening here?’ he began, irritated at seemingly being the last of his crew to know, and yet careful to keep his voice calm and quiet so as not to startle Quinlan.

Quinlan glanced up from his seat. His hair, usually so carefully combed back, now fell down in thick brown locks, totally obscuring his forehead. His glasses balanced precariously on the tip of his nose, and he looked over at Proctor Ingram with eyes Maxson could only describe as broken.

‘It’s okay,’ Ingram smiled gently, ‘You keep sipping that bourbon, Quinlan. I’ve got this.’

She stepped forward, met Maxson’s eyes, and the Elder couldn’t help but be reminded of a mother bear.

‘Elder, I was whipping up some reactor coolant early this morning. Nearing O four hundred hours, it must have been. Most of the crew had returned to their quarters, so the deck was quiet - you know that’s how I work best.’

‘Go on.’

‘Anyway, I heard a groaning. Screaming, I guess, muffled as it was. Really going for it. So I followed the noise, all the way to Quinlan’s office. The door was locked from the outside, poor guy couldn’t get out. Anyway, I’m wondering how the fool managed to get into that mess, and I realise _I_ can’t get him out, but I know a guy who can, and luckily he’s sleeping in the cage as always,’ she jerked a thumb at Proctor Teagan, ‘so he Super-Sledges the lock and we get him out.’

Maxson was growing impatient, despite his best efforts. If he’d known the story would be so convoluted, he might have brought a bottle of bourbon too.

‘I’m assuming Proctor Quinlan is _not_ sitting in the sickbay because he managed to get locked inside his own office,’ he ventured, ‘So would you please tell me _why_ we’re all here?’

It was Teagan who took the floor now, arms folded neatly across his barrel-like chest.

‘Because he didn’t get locked in by mistake, Elder,’ he started gruffly, ‘They _purposely_ locked him in there.’

‘Who?’

‘The two idiots,’ Teagan spat, ‘Who stripped him naked, scrawled “FASCIST” all over his body, duct -taped him to a chair and tore up his lab.’

The Elder looked over at Quinlan, who now seemed to have sunk even lower into the bed.

‘Is this true, Proctor?’

A brief nod was at first all he received in the way of reply, until Quinlan pushed a quaking hand to his brow, swept away a flood of hair and revealed the permanent-marker etchings of FASCIST SCUM stamped onto his forehead.

‘I’m sorry, Elder. I didn’t…we…we didn’t know how to tell you.’

Maxson sighed glumly. It was one thing to bully a member of his crew, and really, he could think of no other word for such cruelty, but Quinlan? Of all people, they’d gone for the quietest, humblest man on his ship? How dare they make a wreck of a man who wanted nothing more than to pet his cat and devour the latest technical documents his scribes had found for him?

His jaw set hard, and he resisted the urge to spit on the floor. That was unsanitary, and coarse, he knew. But how else could he express his utter disgust?

‘You have nothing to apologise for, Proctor. I’m only sorry this was able to happen on my ship. You give me names, Quinlan, and I’ll have them-’

‘You won’t find them,’ interjected Ingram, ‘They’re long gone. Fled the Prydwen straight after, Proctor Quinlan believes. And before you start vowing to scour the Commonwealth for them, don’t.’

‘And why not?’ Maxson was incredulous, ‘They make a mockery of one of my finest soldiers, and I should leave them to live? We’ll check records, find names, relatives. No one who does this is worthy to be a member of the Brotherhood. I will tear the uniforms from their corpses if I have to.’

Quinlan slowly pushed himself off the bed, came to stand before his leader with a shaky hand on his arm. It took no effort for Maxson to bear the older man’s weight.

‘Whilst I appreciate your concern, Elder,’ he whispered, ‘And truly believe you mean to act on those intentions, it isn’t possible. They weren’t on the records. We’ve been so overrun with new recruits, our records are almost a fortnight behind sign-ups, and they hadn’t been processed yet. I couldn’t give you one name, let alone two.’

Maxson lowered his head. His niggling concerns had been just that until now: niggling. But for a wastelander to infiltrate his glorious Brotherhood, to assault one of his brothers, just to spite their own hateful rhetoric? He wouldn’t stand for it.

‘This ends now,’ he growled. ‘Quinlan, if you feel able, continue working through the processed new recruits. Check all information as best you can, make sure it’s valid. I’ll send more scribes to assist you. Kells, I want every recruit not yet processed expelled from the Prydwen with immediate effect. I’ll record a radio transmission advertising recruitment at the Cambridge Police Station, and that will be our only recruitment centre. No Airport, nowhere else. All potential new recruits will be personally vetted by me – I’ll fly down to the Station every day and work until sunset. Anyone I deem suitable will be flown up to the Prydwen at the end of the day, where I will expect you, Kells and Cade, to rigorously test them physically and mentally. Any concerns, however slight, you expel them immediately. No recruit will assume the role of initiate until at least a month of observation and vetting. I will not allow this to happen again, and I will not see my Brotherhood destroyed from the inside. Does anybody have any questions?’

Seeing the widened eyes of all those in the room, Maxson guessed there were more than a few questions rattling in the brains of his crew, but only Proctor Teagan spoke.

‘You mean to say, Elder, you’ll personally recruit every single new member?’ he shook his head in apparent disbelief, ‘Sir, with all due respect, you’ll kill yourself. It’s too much for one man.’

Maxson shrugged. ‘I am young, brothers and sister. That does not mean I am stupid. Yes, it is a tall order, especially given our current… _popularity_ with the wastelanders. But I allowed men onto my ship who have humiliated a valued member of the Brotherhood. I cannot forgive myself for that. And I will not rest until I am certain nothing like that will happen again.’

He stretched out his arms. ‘Besides, I am not just one man. I have my Brotherhood, and you will support me, I assume? Ad victoriam?’

The reply was instantaneous, a five-strong, unified _Ad Victoriam_ that could raise goose bumps on even the most unfeeling of skin.

Then it was settled. One by one, he’d rebuild this Brotherhood. And if it killed him to do it, it would be an honour to die.


	2. Playing Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, thanks for checking out chapter 2 of Scare Tactics :) Again, this chapter focuses on Prydwen-based antics, so no OC yet (she will appear in the next chapter) - if you're not too keen on more Maxson / crew action, feel free to skip this chapter and wait for chapter 3 - that will pick up with Maxson finally off the Prydwen and beginning his recruitment plan. Enjoy!

**Chapter 2 - Playing Soldier**

The Elder’s plans were put into motion with the efficiency and speed he had come to expect from his crew. No sooner had he left the assembly in the sickbay, taking his usual position at the thick windows of the head of the Prydwen, than Lancer Captain Kells was ordering flash mobs of four of five initiates at a time to escort all unregistered new recruits from the ship – now stripped of their Brotherhood jumpsuits and buttoned back into their grimy, tattered civilian clothing - and Maxson trailed over the steps leading down to the flight deck to watch the wheels begin turning. Some recruits resisted, struggling, legs kicking wildly like panicked animals, but the initiates held firm, hands on shoulders, boots in step, marching them onto the flight deck to waiting Vertibirds with the kind of practised calm only military service could instil.

Most barely reacted at all – the strugglers were few amongst hundreds – instead blindly submitting to the clearly-barked orders of the initiates, and Kells’ own looping announcement on the Prydwen intercom, with little more than a bemused head-shake or an exasperated groan of ‘Was that _it_?’ A few even dared to insult his crew, his ship, his Brotherhood, to claim they had never wanted this to begin with: if he could not hear their words, he could see their screaming jaws, their brows creased in disgust. But that did not bother Maxson. Anyone who slandered his Brotherhood on departure had deserved no place within it to begin with, and he was more than happy to see them go. He was only surprised that they hadn’t needed to break out the power armour to remove recruits; he’d imagined employing Knights to pry them from the ship as they begged not to leave. A pained disappointment settled in the pit of his stomach as he observed hundreds leaving without as much as a pout.

He recorded his recruitment call for one of Kells’ Knights, in the abnormally empty confines of the command centre. A proud, sharp call to arms that shook the windows in reverberation that Kells had assured him would be out on the airwaves by lunchtime. Good. If he continued preparations, and the rest of his crew maintained their current work rate, the Prydwen would be cleared by evening and he could start his work tomorrow. He turned his back on the ongoing evacuations and strode back to his quarters, arms sharply folded behind his back, profile almost regal in its arrogance.

There was a wooden explosives crate resting at the foot of his bed when he entered his sanctuary, its battered pale lemonade paint crackling as he crouched to lift the lid. Well, his crew certainly _had_ been busy, to arrange all this in the space of only two hours. Nestled within the scrunched pages of an old Boston Bugle were three fresh fusion cores for his Gatling, polished to an impressive sheen, a bundle of paper, folders and pens - which he slipped open to reveal printed registration forms, with a note promising more at the station by tomorrow morning - a couple of Stimpaks and finally, a small packaged wrapped individually with a precise administering of duct tape he could only attribute to Cade.

Maxson cradle the package in a large hand, retreating to sit on the edge of his bed. He rested the parcel on his lap, carefully slid his index finger under the edge of the tape and tugged the newspaper away.

If this was a joke, it was misguided. If it was genuine care, it was an even more misplaced intention. Garishly beaming up at him was a Vault-Tec lunchbox, emblazoned with that goofy Vault boy and his seemingly inerasable grin. When he flipped the rusting lid, he was greeted with a small flask, labelled _Vegetable soup_ , a sweet roll, dandy boy apple and two paper bags which, upon further inspection, had also been carefully labelled in marker pen.

_Mirelurk cake_

_Yao guai ribs_

Well, they’d packed his favourites, which would have been kind if he didn’t find the whole idea so violently insulting. He was twenty years old, and had barely had a childhood to begin with. He didn’t intend to begin one now. Besides, who could possibly respect an elder whose subordinates packed him lunch?

The though burned away at him, the idea of them laughing about it, snickering in the mess hall. Little Arthur Maxson with his little lunchbox, playing soldier like a big boy. He closed the lid gently, then lifted the tin in one hand, weighing it in his palm before he launched it full force at the wall, colliding with a biting metallic _thwang_ and spilling its contents to the floor as it dropped. Its flimsy metal edges had buckled under the impact, distorting the image so that happy-go-lucky Vault Boy smiled no more.

He’d have to wipe up the food later, mop up the soup splattered across the wall. But satisfied for the moment, he strolled out of the room.

Naturally, he headed straight to the sickbay to confront Cade. It was one thing to voice concern, something Cade had become increasingly focussed on, and Maxson could handle the mother goose role the medic appeared to have assumed, but to pack lunches? In a _Vault Tec lunchbox?_ Maybe the radiation had started to rot his brain.

‘Knight Captain.’

Maxson did not have to say any more than that to set a shiver in the older man’s spine, his eyes widening slightly as he stood up from his desk. As a direct result of being young for his position of authority, and as such, frequently disregarded by the uninitiated, the elder had learned to harden his gaze to rival the steel his Brotherhood bore as a name, blue eyes glacial under thick brows. People certainly took you more seriously if you looked like your gaze alone could slit their throat, and if the slight twitch in Cade’s jaw was anything to go by, Maxson was confident the tactic was still working.

‘Elder Maxson,’ Cade began, ‘Is there a problem?’

Maxson brought his exposed fingertips to rest tented against each other. It was an insignificant gesture, but Cade didn’t miss the threat laced within it.  

‘How long have I been leader of this Brotherhood, Knight Captain?’

‘Almost five years, sir.’

‘And in those ten years, I have done the best for my brothers and sisters, no?’

‘Yes, Elder. More than anyone could’ve asked.’

‘Then _why_ ,’ Maxson’s voice dropped to a whisper which, if anything, only served to sound even more threatening than a shout, ‘Do my crew members not respect me? _Why_ , Knight Captain, does one of my most valued soldiers think it appropriate to pack lunch for me in a _child’s lunchbox_?’

To the young man’s surprise, Cade did not respond immediately, nor did he flinch at the verbal sucker punch. Instead, the doctor stepped behind his desk again, leant over to view his terminal screen and kept his gaze fixed in the faint green glow.

‘ _I feel that the mental well-being of the crew should remain a top priority_ ,’ Cade read, his voice clipped, words almost monotone, ‘ _If you observe any issues relating to the stresses that these lengthy missions can cause, I want you to treat it as though a legitimate illness is being reported_.’ He took a steady breath and glanced back up at Maxson. ‘Elder, it was _you_ who told me to monitor the mental well-being of this crew. That includes you. I would be a failure as a doctor if I didn’t pick up on the clearly depressive symptoms you’ve been exhibiting since our victory over the Institute.’

Try as he might, Maxson found he couldn’t quite maintain the hard set to his jaw. He brought a hand to his head, fingertips loosely massaging his temple, and let out a quiet sigh. He’d been childish, thoughtless. And the Vault Tec lunchbox still made his blood boil, but glancing at Cade, he could see his top medical officer genuinely had been trying to help.

As unnecessary as that help was.

‘I’m not depressed, Knight Captain. I can assure you, there’s no need to worry about me. Please, focus on the rest of the crew.’

Cade ducked a hand into his desk drawer, brought out a battered clipboard and began to read over the slip of paper on it.

‘You rarely sleep – various crew members have reported seeing you awake throughout the night and early morning. You show no interest in anything other than your official duties, whereas before you would work on power armour or look over Proctor Teagan’s newest shipments. You’ve lost weight, you seldom eat a proper meal and your appetite seems virtually non-existent. You rarely leave your quarters now, let alone the Prydwen, and you veer from totally inexpressive to irritable, self-loathing and guilt-ridden. Respectfully, Elder Maxson, you are exhibiting classic symptoms of a depressive state of mind. I packed you the lunch not because I think you are incapable of looking after yourself, but because I knew you would neglect your own well-being in favour of recruitment.’ He met the elder’s eyes, ‘Your commitment to the Brotherhood has never been in doubt, Elder. In fact, your willingness to put everything into this organisation is commendable. But it should not come at a risk to your own health. Mental _or_ physical. You can refuse my help as much as you wish, but it will not stop me offering it in any way I can. I wouldn’t be performing my duty as doctor if I gave up.’

Frustratingly for Maxson, Cade has chosen his words carefully. He’d managed to side-step any accusations of patronisation and molly-coddling and had headed straight into responsible medic territory. And the tenacity, the stubbornness he’d shown, well, Maxson could hardly condemn him for exhibiting two of the very qualities he looked for in a Brotherhood soldier.

‘Well,’ Maxson began, ‘It seems we’ve reached an impasse, Knight Captain. I won’t accept your diagnosis and you won’t relinquish your help. And I don’t have to tell you I’m just as stubborn as you are.’ A smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth, tugging his scar lightly. ‘I appreciate your concern, Cade. But please, no more Vault Boy. If you’re going to pack lunch, a knapsack will do just fine.’

And at the medic’s gobsmacked expression, Maxson took his chance to leave. The unknowing observer might have said he was chuckling, but he’d deny that until he was blue in the face. He returned to his quarters, quickly cleaned the mess from the floor and wall with Boston Bugle sheets from the crate and dropped the ruined food, and Vault Boy, into the metal bin at his bedside.

He packed his treasured Gatling into the crate, nestling it neatly into the corner now vacated by the lunchbox, and summoned a pair of scribes to transport the box into the Vertibird prepared for him. According to the message he’d received from Lancer Captain Kells, tomorrow he’d be accompanied on the flight to the police station by Knight Rhys, to be met by all the Brotherhood members usually based there. He’d sent word to the Sentinel to inform her of the plan, but he doubted he’d receive a reply. She was playing mother somewhere now.

One night to pass, and at precisely 06:00 hours he could start reshaping his Brotherhood. He prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that this plan would work – he’d never hear the end of it otherwise, and none of the feats they praised him for would withstand the doubting of an entire organisation if he failed. Momentarily, he wished he’d volunteered to single-handedly take on a nest of Deathclaws rather than put his neck on the chopping block for this, but he dislodged the thought quickly and settled on his bed with a bottle of Nuka Cherry and a nagging headache.  

If Nuclear Annihilation hadn’t been enough to kill them all off, there had to be some potential soldiers in the Commonwealth. He comforted himself with the thought, and managed a brief couple of hours sleep that he hoped would quell Cade’s worrying.

When he hopped into the Vertibird the next morning, with the kind of practiced grace initiates frequently tried, and failed, to emulate, his eyes immediately caught the knapsack resting on top of his crate.

Cade, it seemed, wouldn’t be giving up anytime soon.

 


	3. Tin Cans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, three chapters in and we're finally meeting my OC, Maxson's plan is progressing too well and the propellers are flying. Enjoy this chapter and Scare Tactics, and keep following the story for more Brotherhood antics and Maxson generally being conflicted, bless him :P

Maxson hadn’t been boots on the ground in far too long. He almost felt awkward as he marched into Cambridge Police station, Knight Rhys flanking him on one side and a pair of initiates carrying his crate and knapsack behind him. There was too much applause and too many compliments- for crushing the Institute and marching the Brotherhood forward - and Maxson felt undeserving of most of the glory his soldiers seemed intent on heaping onto him. They all knew he sent squadrons to disassemble those cults that sprung up now and again, worshiping him as god, not man, and he could only hope he wouldn’t end up lecturing his soldiers on the same behaviour.

He nodded politely at every salute, curtly offered an _Ad Victoriam_ each time one was directed at him, but he was glad for the peace offered to him as he stepped into the side room they’d purposely set up for his new recruitment scheme. Harking back to the building’s pre-War roots, the small room had surely been an interrogation cell. There was a rickety wooden desk set up for Maxson, a plush albeit discoloured armchair on one side and a metal folding chair on the other. The stack of folders and paper had been lifted from the crate and now rested on the left hand side of the desk, the pens arranged in a chipped ceramic mug, and a tall glass jug of water and cup were set to the right.

Knight Rhys seemed content to remain on the outside of the door, laser rifle poised as he took on the role of bodyguard. Other Knights and Scribes would flitter in and out, an offer of food here, a smattering of praise there, but Maxson was mostly free to slip off his coat, recline in his chair and wait for the wastelanders to pour in.

The issue? They simply didn’t come.

Maxson looked over to the cracked enamel clock on the window sill – 08:09. He’d been sitting here for almost two hours, listening to the chatter of his brothers and sisters, the clanking of miniguns and the thunder of boots, but so far not a single wastelander had breached the doors. Perhaps he’d been overly presumptuous. After all, maybe they slept in late. He frequently had to force himself to remember that not everyone had grown up a soldier – they didn’t share the regimented mind-set he now thought so natural.

But of all the virtues that made him a great leader – the ruthless streak, the dogged determination, the pride and confidence and firm belief – patience was not one of them. Some speculated that it was his youth; that he hadn’t yet lost this one trace of childishness, and that being forced to grow up so quickly had instead resulted in a hardening of the rushed, impatient boyishness he’d so often exhibited in the Capital Wasteland. Maxson himself doubted it would dull with age, and frankly didn’t care enough to practise patience. And so he began fidgeting in his chair, toying with the zips on his jumpsuit and rolling his neck like a boxer preparing for a fight.

‘Knight Rhys,’ he called, and doubted the young man would have appeared before him any quicker if the door he’d been standing in front of had suddenly burst into flames.

‘Elder Maxson, Sir.’

‘Anything to report?’ He tried to keep his voice calm, measured. To not let seep through the raging impatience. He flexed his fingers on the table top, fixed his gaze on the knight’s own furrowed brow.

‘Nothing as yet, Elder Maxson. Those wastelanders don’t even realise what they’re missing. They could be part of our proud Brotherhood, but no, they don’t-’

‘Thank you, Knight. Dismissed.’

He could admire Rhys’ passion, but he hardly needed the encouragement of a worked-up hothead like him to ramp up his impatience any further. He didn’t miss the irritated, confused crease in the bridge of Rhys’ nose as he dismissed him, but he paid it no mind. He wasn’t here to foster egos. He had a big enough one of his own to keep in check.

He settled back, poured himself a glass of water and took a steadying glug. The room was grimy and cool, the pale blue paint cracking on the walls, but his temples felt hot and an uncomfortable sweat pricked the back of his neck.

Wastelanders had never been part of the original plan. He’d been fixated on recruiting only those recommended by existing brothers and sisters, a tactic that had been successful, if intricate and time-consuming. But he couldn’t limit himself to that now. So many had fallen, killed in the line of duty, that there simply wouldn’t be enough soldiers to sustain the Brotherhood if they didn’t branch out and extent their hand to willing Commonwealth citizens. As much as he willed it not to be, this was the way of the world now. Things changed.

But almost eleven hours after he had departed from the Prydwen, when all he had to show for his plans were three possible recruits – with details to follow up back on board - , a list of definitely-nots as long as his right arm and a throbbing pain in his temples, Maxson was finished for the day. He uttered quick goodbyes and collared a free pilot to transport him back, his possessions hastily loaded into the Vertibird amidst the not quite hushed whispers that just one day in, his mission wasn’t progressing well.

If they were waiting for an admission of failure, they would never get it. Change rarely happened overnight, and as much as he had hoped for a better start to the process, it was nowhere near time to roll over and surrender. This would be a battle, same as any other, and he couldn’t yet blame himself for the lack of instant victory.

Still, he mused, he’d need to draw up new tactics.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Maxson settled into the comforting enclosure of the Vertibird, nodded to the pilot and breathed a heavy sigh, drowned out by the engines, as they took off from the radiation-baked soil. He stood by the door, a hand braced on either side of the exit, arms spread out like an eagle’s wings, piercing gaze raking in the Commonwealth as they flew by.

From up here, as aboard the Prydwen, the Commonwealth was a kingdom to be ruled. It would never look magnificent, not even proud, nuclear warfare and radiation damage and constant in-fighting assured that, but there was something undeniably striking about it, rising up from the rubble.

‘Take a long route back, Knight,’ he instructed the pilot, ‘I could do with the air.’

The pilot nodded, accepted Maxson’s swift excuse of a headache and promptly turned the Vertibird in mid-air, streaking away from the airport base and back out above the ragged terrain. The Elder barely took in the scenery, a fire pit here, a crater there, flickering fluorescent lights and battered corrugated iron. His hands never even graced the minigun, a thrill he’d savoured many times before.

He was so very, very tired.

As if on cue, to shake him from his reverie before his heavy eyes fell closed, the unmistakeable smoke trail of a crashing Brotherhood Vertibird sailed past his eyes, a shrieking whine of the failing engine before it disappeared over the drop of a rocky hillside and collided with the ground in a blazing boom.

His pilot was steering over towards the crash site before he’d even given the order, and Maxson gave a silent salute as he blessed his soldiers for another sacrifice in the name of the Brotherhood. Maybe today they’d garner some luck – one, two bodies to carry home, but no more. They’d lost enough.

They landed twenty or so metres away from the crash site – Maxson insisted on landing no closer. He’d seen and heard it happen more times than he cared to remember; a blazing wreckage, two pilots killed, and another three knights taken out by secondary explosions when they flew in to help. The clinical, composed part of his brain reminded him that they’d need their own Vertibird to take back word of the tragedy. He couldn’t afford to lose it to carelessness.

Sure enough, the Vertibird burst into another ball of flame the moment the first fire had subsided; the remaining fuel exploding with a force that sent a propeller flying off into the distance. As soon as that too had extinguished itself, Maxson hopped from his own Vertibird, pilot in tow, and carefully approached the wreckage. One pilot. No passengers. Gone, of course, charred and blackened, eyes frozen wide open in death. He reached out a gloved hand to pull the warm dog tags from the soldier’s neck, dropped them into the pocket of his long coat. Once they’d returned to the Prydwen, he’d log the soldier’s details with Quinlan and have Kells send a recovery team out.

‘Ad victoriam, brother,’ he heard the pilot whisper from behind him, a send-off as heartfelt as the Brotherhood allowed. Maxson bumped his own fist against his chest in sympathy and turned away from the wreckage, taking a sobering breath as he looked up to the grey, mottled sky.

It was the heavy, committed trudge of boots on the rocky terrain that brought the elder’s gaze quite literally back down to earth, followed by the unceremonious dumping of the charred, badly mangled propeller blade at his feet.

‘I take it this belongs to you.’

If the pilot behind him gasped at the lack of formality, the audacity to address the Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel with the impatient grumble of a moody child, Maxson didn’t recognise it. His eyes followed the dirt-caked black combat boots to ripped-knee jeans and a well-worn brown leather bomber jacket, a tired, young face – pleasing enough angular features streaked in engine oil – quirked brows and peroxide hair.

‘It’s no good to me,’ the girl continued in her lazy, faintly drawling voice, ‘Too far gone for anything useful, and too much effort for scrap.’

Maxson glanced over his shoulder, dismissed the pilot to wait back in their own Vertibird and charged him with noting their coordinates for the recovery later. If they were trying to recruit Wastelanders, they couldn’t afford to start killing them off in fits of bureaucratic rage, and he could feel the disapproval rolling off the young pilot in waves. One more lack of ‘Sir,’ or ‘Elder’ and Maxson could see the laser pistols being drawn. For his own part, Maxson found it rather refreshing to converse with someone who clearly wasn’t interested in hero-worship or ego-fostering, although the impatient tapping of her foot was starting to grate.

‘And yet you felt the need to return it?’

The girl – young woman, he supposed, as he guessed she couldn’t be more than a couple of years his junior -  cocked her head to one side and nudged the propeller with the toe of her boot.

‘If a fucking propeller crashed into the roof of your business, I’m pretty sure you’d rush out to see what was going on, too. Well,’ she gave him a cautious glance, ‘You’re probably used to that kind of thing. The rest of us _aren’t_.’

Maxson didn’t care for the assumption, as true as it may have been.

‘So _this_ ,’ he gestured to the battered propeller, a bargaining chip in charred disguise, ‘Was really an excuse to satisfy your curiosity. As good a reason as any, I suppose. Satisfied?’

‘Well, if there’d been anything left of your tin can here, I’d have taken it back to the shop,’ she shrugged, ‘But I can kiss that goodbye. That thing went up like a Corvega. You know, to say you’re supposed to be the big technicians of the Commonwealth, you really haven’t done _any_ work on the safety records of those choppers. You might have at l-’

‘Shop?’

He had to cut her off. Apparently Wastelanders had developed the ability to speak without pausing for breath. Maybe a side effect of the radiation. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to stand back and listen to a civilian lecture him on things she clearly had no idea about.

‘Yeah, the garage.’ She placed a hand jauntily on one hip, flashed an alarmingly cartoonish grin and bopped her knee gently along to the sing-song of her voice, ‘ _Kepler’s Garage_ – “ _If you could strap a motor to it, we can fix it!”_ ’

It took a moment for the girl’s face to fall into a sarcastic snicker, for Maxson to realise that she’d been teasing him and wasn’t actually advertising the business with the type of nagging jingle Diamond City Radio frequently blasted out in the soldiers’ quarters. A small relief.

‘ _You_ have a garage? Out _here_?’ he couldn’t keep the disbelief from his voice, much as he might try. Aside from the engine oil, she didn’t look like a mechanic – more like a drifter - and they were standing in the middle of nowhere, all rocky outcrops and ashy soil. It hardly seemed the appropriate location for such a business. Maybe she was playing him for a fool. Again.

‘I _run_ a garage,’ she corrected flippantly, pointing a finger out into the distance, ‘Out here, behind that rock formation. Course, we don’t exactly get the luxury of cars to mess around with, so it’s mostly power armour, weapons, that sort of thing. What, you think girls can’t figure their way around a power tool, Longcoat?’

He didn’t dignify the nickname with a retort, instead coolly pushed his hands into the pockets of the coat and leaned back on his heels, relishing his opportunity to make the girl falter.

‘My head of engineering is female, so I don’t doubt your ability based on gender. I’d question two things, however. Firstly, how do you manage to run a successful business in such a geographical black hole? And secondly, how do you keep the thieves away? I’d assume if you possess all the scrap and power armour you claim to, the raiders wouldn’t be far from the door?’

‘The people who need us know how to find us,’ she shrugged, arms crossed loosely over her chest. ‘As for your second point, five older brothers come in handy for some things. I’ve got protection, and I don’t even have to pay for it.’

‘I don’t see them anywhere.’

The young woman shook her head, expression caught somewhere between exasperation and bemusement. She was already turning to walk away as she spoke, leaving Maxson no time to formulate a reply, let alone voice it, before she was striding off towards the rocks.

‘That’s because I haven’t told them to kill you yet.’

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading guys - this is my first attempt at a Fallout 4 fanfic, and my first published fanfic at that, so I hope you guys enjoy reading as much as I've been enjoying writing it! :) I'll try to keep Maxson as in-character as possible, so if you notice any glaring discrepancies, please feel free to vent! My OC will enter in the next couple of chapters, but I think a little background is necessary first - it will be a slow-burner but we'll get there.


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